


"Of course scotch and ale, but wine following opera."

by Lucyemers



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Operas, Romance, red wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7605073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/pseuds/Lucyemers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d heard your were partial to scotch?” he gestured vaguely towards the bottle of Cabernet Morse was in the process of opening. “Or ale?”</p><p>“Oh of course, yes, scotch and ale. But wine following opera. Always. I could drink anything and enjoy the effect of it” he half smirked at himself, “but when I get the chance to go to the opera I always follow it up with wine. I’m just…usually alone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Of course scotch and ale, but wine following opera."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lydia_E_Nheers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_E_Nheers/gifts).



> For the Tumblr prompt “That looks good on you” and DeBryn/Morse. I have never written this ship before, or much romance at all, to be honest. I also wrote it much quicker that I usually do so it’s a little messy and a lot of just open my heart and pour out all the feelings.
> 
> Pairs well with red wine and opera.
> 
> I also should note that if you are reading my other fic Town Vs. Gown this takes place in a different universe. Gotta have my cake and eat it too (wanted to write Morse/DeBryn without him cheating on my OC.) ;)

He had imagined himself in this flat before. At the ends of his longest days when his guard was down, when his loneliness was at its sharpest. It was not a good idea. It went against his better advice to himself. But he allowed himself the comfort (or torment?) of imagining a place he never believed he would ever actually be…. And yet here he was. Standing awkwardly in the kitchen of Morse’s one room flat, eyes looking everywhere but where they most wanted to.

He had spotted Morse in a brief flash of clarity thanks to the relentless slap of his windshield wipers. It was bad enough to be driving in this kind of downpour let alone walking. He’d hastily pulled over and rolled down the window just long enough to get his attention and insist that he get in. Morse had brought a small downpour with him as he’d folded his dripping, gangly limbs into the passenger seat, coughing and sputtering and slamming the passenger door, and murmuring his thanks. They were not far from their destination and Max conveniently had an umbrella on hand. And so they were pressed rather close in the journey from car to front door. He’d seen Morse in, to keep him under cover of his umbrella, though a bit more rain hardly mattered at this point. They’d said very little during the drive, mostly because all of Max’s concentration was engaged in squinting through the rain to the road just a few feet ahead of him. In the doorway of the flat he’d realized Morse was sporting a now soaked through tuxedo. “The opera?” Morse nodded as he divested of his jacket and hung it, dripping, by the door. Max tried for forced casualness as he closed the umbrella, but he was aghast at the earnestness in his own voice as he said, “That looks good on you.” Their usual manner was one of cleverness, banter, very occasionally sarcasm, but it was as if the deluge had washed away their defenses. And Morse had blushed, brushed dripping hair out of his eyes, then, miraculously, looked him straight in the eye and gave one of those smirks of his that changed to a smile if you blinked, and said, “Stay for a drink.”

“Alright.”

And so he was perched on a kitchen chair, decidedly not looking at the man hastily changing out of sopping evening-wear into a dry shirt and trousers. He was taking in all the lovely, intimate unconcerned minutia of someone who lived alone. His own small house was all carefully tucked corners and organized necessity. Morse’s flat was one of disorder, all stacks of records and half read newspapers, opened books face down, teacups and whisky glasses tinged with the film of their contents’ purpose served and then left forgotten. The slight chaos of the physical objects betrayed what Max already suspected was true: the Detective Constable lived in his head rather than his flat.

And then Morse was back in the kitchen, perhaps purposefully not making eye contact with Max pulling one wine glass from an upper cabinet and cursing softly under his breath at his inability to find another. He placed the glass awkwardly in front of Max rather like he were setting a table in finishing school, just so. He didn’t know if this was Morse just being Morse, absurdly formal in that lovely endearing way or his, or if this was due to a similar, but he hardly dared to hope, giddy nervousness at the turn the evening had taken? Perhaps so. And at this thought Max felt himself relax just enough to register he was still wearing his damp coat and rose to divest and hang it beside Morse’s by the door.

“I’d heard your were partial to scotch?” he gestured vaguely towards the bottle of Cabernet Morse was in the process of opening. “Or ale?”

“Oh of course, yes, scotch and ale. But wine following opera. Always. I could drink anything and enjoy the effect of it” he half smirked at himself, “but when I get the chance to go to the opera I always follow it up with wine. I’m just…usually alone.” A shrug. One of his precious self conscious grins. Max watched it drift across his face and realized how familiar he was with his habitual gestures, how he cast his eyes down as he absently ran his hand through his hair, he’d seen him do the same thing lost in thought before, but this time all the while filling the single glass with wine.

“It’s a lovely tradition.” Max said as he swirled the wine in the glass, “I’m honored to be part of it,” he said as he lifted the glass to his nose. Hoping the solemn gesture of acknowledgement for the aroma before taking an appreciative sip would demonstrate that his statement was entirely serious and not his usual off the cuff banter. “It’s excellent.”

Morse, who had poured himself a juice glass of wine, his single wine glass having been given to his guest, was attempted to swirl and sniff as well but found himself nearly choking as he laughed into his sip. “No, you’re right, “ he recovered. “It is quite good even in less that appropriate stemware.” 

“What was on this evening?”

“Gianni Schicchi”

“Oh.”

“Do you know it?”

“I’m sure I’ve heard a recording at some time or other during my Oxford days. I never did go much myself.”

“Oh, it’s…” he paused. Was he really lost for words? Yes, it would appear so. “Its…hold on.” Unlike his kitchen, his records collection was clearly meticulously organized and it only took a moment for Morse to locate the record. Within seconds the room was filled up with an aria of the most exquisite yearning Max had ever heard.

They listened and did not speak for what could only have been about three minutes. Max watched Morse’s eyes, but they were elsewhere, in some distant place with the woman singing, if it could even be called singing. If pressed to describe what it was Max would have said it was wanting, and yearning and desperation, and the creeping sorrow that hid just behind all of that. It wasn’t so much the soprano that was rendering it as intoxicating and perfect as the wine in his glass, though he was sure Morse would have argued with him there, it was watching all of those feelings reflected in the eyes of the man now sighing languidly on the edge of the tiny bed. The most intoxicating part was watching him feel it all with her. 

After it ended all they heard was the rain. Max, warmed by the wine, emboldened by the music, alight with the passion in Morse’s eyes, joined him on the bed. Morse startled as if he had forgotten Max was there. His face was all confusion as he tried again to describe, “It’s…”

“I know”, Max said. He wouldn’t ask him to describe it. He would only give his own paltry words as he met those gloriously blue eyes full on “I know. It’s perfect. It’s everything.” Morse looked at him and his eyes resolved from puzzlement into wonder. And then the silence swelled and Morse was kissing him. Softly at first, and it was tannic and smoky and smooth, the hint of a thumbnail down the spine and warm breath on cheeks. And as the rain poured harder it was robust, full, less restrained, a firm hand to the back of the neck guiding insatiable mouths and fervent gasps as they surfaced for breath. It was wanting and having all at once. It was everything. It was perfect.


End file.
